Unfamiliar Ground
by Westel
Summary: Pavel Chekov, new to the Enterprise, can do nothing right in the captain's eyes. And why does Kirk, in moments of fatigue, call the young ensign "Gary"?


Unfamiliar Ground

by Westel

**Captain's Log, Stardate 1664.6** _Enterprise en route to Delta Vega, a previously automated dilithium cracking station scheduled for permanent habitation by Stardate 1675.4. We will rendezvous in two days with the Vrikahr, a Vulcan freighter carrying equipment and personnel to complete the populating of this _

_planet. We are bringing additional equipment to help expedite this mission, recent detection of Romulan infiltration making upgrading of all fuel manufacturing stations the highest priority. Estimated arrival: Two point six eight hours. Meanwhile, the crew continues to drill..._

"Watch your panel, Ensign. We don't want those rerouted phasers alerting our friends out there." Kirk's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Aye, Captain," said the navigator softly, his face tight with concentration.

This drill was the most difficult yet -- playing cat and mouse with some unknown ship with fire power ten times the strength of their own. Photon torpedoes inoperative, phasers in reroute. Sulu and Chekov had traded places at the helm - a common practice among command trainees during drills - which only added to the stress. The tension was thick; sweat beaded on Chekov's forehead and trickled down his temple. Drill or no drill, this was no time to make a mistake.

"Status, Mr. Spock."

"No additional data at this time, Captain. He is simply watching us."

"Waiting for our next move." Kirk chewed on his lower lip, his fingers softly playing a staccato on the chair arm. "Well, he'll just have to go on waiting." The captain leaned back and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax tense muscles.

Sulu monitored the ship's coordinates, noted a slight change and turned to make his report. "Captain, we are beginning to drift. Shall I compensate, or..."

Pavel glanced up from his panel and turned slightly in his seat, his navigator's instincts honing in on the captain's inchoate answer.

A blinking alarm, unanswered, triggered an auditory one on the weapons panel. The Russian reacted instantly and turned off the phasers, his heart pounding. Everything stopped for a moment, a few seconds which seemed like an eternity.

Suddenly the main viewscreen lit up with a blinding flash as Spock's console beeped simultaneously. The first officer basked briefly in the steady blue glare of his computer monitor before turning to his commanding officer.

"Captain, our atoms have been scattered over three parsecs by the alien vessel attack. The simulator shows, for the record, that the alien ship detected phaser activation and interpreted it as an act of aggression."

"I see." Jim Kirk looked at his first officer; he looked at the viewscreen, at his hands clasped firmly over his crossed knee. "Cancel red alert. The drill is over."

Chekov sat mutely at his console, infuriated with himself, his fists clenched upon the panel.

"Pavel, it's okay," whispered Sulu encouragingly. "That's what the drills are for, to..."

"Helmsman, what about that alarm?" interposed the captain.

"I am very sorry, Captain," stammered the youth, "I just turned away for a moment... "

"And killed my ship." Kirk held the Russian's eyes with his own.

"Y - yes, Sir."

"You're aware that there are rarely second chances in space?"

"Aye, Sir, but... "

"Perhaps some additional study concerning the mechanics of rerouted phaser power-up would be in order, Ensign," Kirk suggested benignly. A frown creased his brow as he noted signs of fatigue in the youth, a fatigue mirroring his own. "An hour or two of sleep wouldn't hurt, either." Kirk glanced at the chronometer: only a few minutes until Chekov's shift ended. "You're dismissed."

Chekov blinked in stupefaction. "But, Sir, my shift is not over until... "

He was silenced by a hard hazel stare.

Chekov rose stiffly from his chair and moved toward the turbolift, his eyes locking momentarily with the captain's before he left the bridge.

_Too hard on him_, thought Kirk, as he watched the young man exit. But he asked for these extra shifts -- he knew he'd be facing more drills than he'd ever experienced before. Kirk smiled grimly. McCoy had been fussing with him for a week now, saying he was pushing the crew too hard, accusing him of an obsession with this planet. Maybe. Or maybe he was obsessed with not remembering too much, or too well...

ooOOoo

Pavel A. Chekov walked leadenly into his room, dropping back against the closed doors behind him. With an effort, he straightened and moved over to the computer, keying in Starfleet manuals/phasers. The text appeared on the screen, but he could not see it, gazing instead into the distance, his hands grasping

the sides of the monitor in a painful grip. Suddenly, his fierce determination crumbled and he slammed his fists violently against the top of the monitor before dropping his dark head onto folded arms.

"I thought you were supposed to be resting."

Chekov jerked his head up, blinking dazedly. Sulu stood just inside the door, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Look, Pavel, you're taking this all too much to heart. God knows you've been on almost every drill these last few days. Give yourself a break. That's all the captain was trying to do." The helmsman sat across from his friend, propping his feet on the console.

"Hikaru, you saw what happened. I was supposed... "

"Yeah, I know, but you're a human being, not a Vulcan, and need some down time. Not even the captain can operate at top capacity without a minimum of rest. In case you hadn't noticed, he's been on every drill, too. He was a bit hard on you, though... "

"I don't want to talk about it. I can't do anything right as far as the captain's concerned, anyway."

"He's on edge, with the Romulan scare and this rendezvous at Delta Vega." Sulu frowned. "As if he doesn't have enough to think about. I wonder if... " Sulu cut himself off in mid-sentence, wanting to eat his words. He rose quickly and started toward the doors.

"What about Delta Vega?" asked Chekov.

Sulu looked back over his shoulder as the door opened. "I'm due back on the bridge. I just took a break to see if you were okay." Sulu turned to leave.

"Please."

Sulu turned, his face troubled. "I overstepped my authority just now, Pavel. Anything you want to know about the Enterprise and Delta Vega is recorded in ship's computers."

ooOOoo

_" ...died in the line of duty, along with Elizabeth Dehner, PhD, and Lt. Lee Kelso. Cause: indeterminate circumstances, due to incapacitation of ship's chief medical officer, Dr. Mark Piper, science officer Spock, and ship's captain James T. Kirk. Official report lists causes of death as accidental for all personnel _

_concerned... "_

Pavel left the monitor on, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. He had looked up everything he could about Delta Vega and found no more than he already knew: a cracking station visited infrequently - sometimes only once in twenty years by any given Federation ship -- which needed little but routine

maintenance from time to time.

The report itself was scanty, but Starfleet, Chekov had already learned, deemed to let certain reports remain that way, and it usually did very little good to pry any further, unless you enjoyed running yourself into brick walls.

He smiled tiredly. "I'm supposed to be resting and reading Starfleet manuals," he muttered, knowing if Kirk saw what was on his monitor right now there would be hell to pay. He checked the chronometer. Time for bridge duty. Sulu was right, he was taking too many shifts, but the chance to work with the captain

was worth it. Or was it? He didn't know anymore... it was plain that Kirk wasn't pleased with him, but he was simply too tired to try and figure it out.

"There's no reason to kill yourself just to prove something to the captain," Sulu had said. But Chekov knew full well, as he caught the lift for the bridge, he would do that very thing, if necessary.

ooOOoo

"Jim, you know as well as I do that four hours between shifts simply isn't enough. If you don't get some rest, now, I'm going to enter it in my medical log as behavior showing irresponsibility on the part of the ship's captain!" McCoy's voice rasped over Kirk's shoulder as they both pretended to observe Delta Vega

shimmering in the viewscreen before them.

"Bones!" Jim swiveled around abruptly, upsetting McCoy's perch. The outburst alerted Spock, who looked up from his instruments. The bridge was suddenly very quiet.

The captain turned back to face the viewscreen again and McCoy resumed his previous position. The crew relaxed, recognizing the crisis, whatever it had been, had passed.

"Well?" came the hoarse whisper.

"McCoy, did anyone ever tell you that you missed your calling? You should be on the stage with that voice -- I bet they can hear you all the way down in engineering."

McCoy was undaunted. "Are you or aren't you?"

Kirk sighed, shaking his head. "All right, Bones. I'm not planning any more drills for awhile, but I want to be here during the next shift. Just for an hour!" he exclaimed, holding his hands up in mock defense as McCoy bristled. "There are a couple of new crew members I'm keeping an eye on -- they're due on the bridge in five minutes."

"Okay, but I'm calling your quarters at 21:30 hours and you'd better bite my head off 'cause I woke you outta your beauty sleep!" The good doctor took the sting out of his words with a kindly squeeze of Jim's shoulder, and the lift doors soon swallowed him up.

Kirk rubbed his hands over his face, stifling a yawn, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was bone tired, but the waiting bed held little promise of rest. The dreams, the memories, come alive once again in the night, had taken their toll. God, just yesterday he had called Chekov 'Gary'! The navigator had looked like he had been struck, and well he should have, too. The young man was working his behind off, that was evident, trying to mollify his crusty captain. It wasn't that Kirk couldn't appreciate the Russian's capabilities; it was just

that Gary should have been in that station, his mischievous smile thrown at his captain, his easy confidence taking the edge off Jim's own insecurity. Gary had been so young; if only...

The lift doors opened and change of shift took place smoothly, a routine pattern which moved like a strange dance without music. In only a few moments, all faces had changed, except for Kirk's and Spock's. Sulu manned his post, looking refreshed and alert. Mr. Atahra, recently assigned to the Enterprise, adjusted a

hydro-ventilator, just visible above his high-necked tunic which had been tailored especially for his 20 cm. neck. The new crewman, wearing the blue of the science department, was the first native of Vestrii to graduate the Academy, and he bore the responsibility solemnly. His planet's atmosphere was comparable to Earth's, only the hydrogen/oxygen ratio was slightly higher; hence his species' need for extra hydrogen. Kirk found him capable, quiet, and very intense. At two point two meters Atahra, like many people Kirk knew, had the advantage in height, but that didn't bother the captain.

Jim's gaze left the efficient crew member, huddled over the science station with Mr. Spock, and wandered to the back of the new ensign at navigation -- Chekov. As if sensing the captain's gaze, the young man turned and smiled tentatively, his boyish features looking almost wistful. Jim's eyes crinkled minutely as he

remembered his own youthful eagerness. His voice was gentle as he addressed the Russian. "Ensign."

The navigator sat up straighter, his features sobering. "Aye, Sir?"

"Report on ship's status."

"Aye, Captain." Chekov studied his readings and gave a brief but thorough report on the ship's orbit, position and speed.

Kirk was not insensitive to Chekov's own fatigue, the stress he had been working under lately, and the young man's inexorable drive to perform his duty. He was pushing himself too hard, as much or more than the captain. Kirk recalled the recent dressing-down he had given the navigator. He deserves some honest praise, he thought, his frown warming into a smile.

"Efficient, Navigator," he said, nodding. "Keep up the good work."

Pavel, thus rewarded, sat for some moments trying desperately not to grin. Sulu threw him a sideways look and winked, causing near apoplexy in his fellow helmsman.

"Mr. Spock, what was that?" queried Mr. Atahra in his remarkably low-pitched voice. Mr. Spock's answer was directed to the captain.

"Captain, sensors picked up something momentarily, but now the readings are just as they were before."

"Picked up on what, Spock?" Kirk's fatigue was instantly forgotten as memories of a not-too-distant past sounded alarms in his intuition.

"An object, Captain, or objects. The pattern was broken up, wavering like refracted light, before it disappeared." Spock continued to monitor as his Vestrii aide kept vigil over other instruments and sensors.

"Any precedent for such an occurrence?"

"Under certain circumstances, yes, Captain. What our sensors picked up could simply be our own reflection from a highly mineralized planet."

"Feed the information through the computers again, Spock. I want to know what that was."

Pavel hunched over his console, his gut tightening just as it did during the drills, only this was the real thing...

An hour went by -- two hours; still the empty planet retained its silence and the space outside its atmosphere harbored its own secrets. There were no more blips; sensors remained quiet. Tension eased on the bridge as it was surmised that the 'sighting' was nothing more than a reflection, after all. Kirk, though unconvinced, kept his opinions to himself.

Pavel flexed tight muscles, his hands on his lower back, and yawned widely. His own grey weight of fatigue was pressing in on him again, now that the alert was over and the surge of adrenaline ebbed. He inspected the panel routinely and found his vision blurring...

"Ensign!" Kirk's irritated tone cut in on Pavel's distant thoughts like glass shattering against stone.

"Uh... yes, Captain!?" Had he dozed off?

"I was saying you look tired. It seems I was right." Kirk put up his hand to stop the protest the young helm officer was about to offer. "Navigator, when I give an order I expect it to be obeyed. Didn't I tell you to get some rest when you were off-duty?"

Pavel stiffened. The captain was right, of course, but he wasn't some child to be scolded in front of his peers. The answer spilled off his tongue before he could stop himself... "I wasn't aware that was an order, Captain."

Kirk bit off a retort. Damn it, what was the matter with him? He had been ready to argue with a subordinate! No one had ever taken him to task in front of the crew like that. That is, no one except Gary, and that was a long time ago... Kirk forced himself to look at the viewscreen. "Man your station, Ensign, and make sure you don't let your lack of sleep interfere with your job again."

As if on cue, Uhura's communications panel chirruped. "Captain," she said, relaying the message, "Dr. McCoy asked me to tell you that he is ten minutes away from making that critical entry you discussed earlier. He said you would know what he meant. Also he said... " Uhura stopped, looking somewhat puzzled.

"Yes?" Kirk was already out of his chair, moving toward the lift.

"He said even the boogie man has to sleep sometimes."

Jim grimaced, realizing just how well the doctor knew him. He turned to his first officer. "I'm off to my quarters until next shift, Mr. Spock. Doctor's orders." He glanced at the viewscreen. "Notify me immediately if our shadow show up again."

"Yes, Captain."

"Oh, and Navigator."

"Aye, Sir?"

Kirk noticed Chekov's face was carefully neutral. "Take a half hour break, Ensign, and make it soon. _That's_ an order, if you need clarification."

Pavel felt the color spreading up his cheeks and into his hairline, but he held himself in check. He came to rigid attention and replied crisply, "Aye, Sir!"

Kirk entered the lift and closing doors blocked out the Russian, still standing stiffly at attention.

ooOOoo

The ship lurched and lights dimmed erratically, shedding an eerie glare over the corridors as men and women hurried to battle stations. Klaxons blared, but the irritating peal was only another noise in the background to them.

Simultaneously, Kirk's intercom beeped and he hit the switch automatically after jerking out of a much-needed sleep. "Spock, what's going on? I didn't authorize any more drills."

"Unknown Captain. We've taken several hits to the starboard bow and one in the port nacelle strut. Shields are holding, though number four is weak."

"Those shields have priority, Spock. Where are the attacks coming from?"

"Again unknown, Captain. Our sensors show nothing is out there."

"Can you get a trajectory?" said Kirk, pulling a tunic over his head.

"Affirmative. Mr. Thompson... "

_Thompson! Where was Chekov? Damn! Probably taking that half hour break I ordered!_

Another blast rocked the ship.

"Spock, maintain those shields, and tell Uhura to call Mr. Chekov back to the bridge! Get my ship out of orbit and return fire as soon as you've got something! I'm on my way."

ooOOoo

"Mr. Spock, I've lost communication to the rest of the ship," exclaimed Uhura, jerking the receiving from her ear.

"Can you reroute, bypass sublinary circuits, Lieutenant?"

"No, Sir. The problem is in my console, not in intraship communications."

"Then I suggest you start puling panels, Ms. Uhura. Do you have ship-to-ship?"

The communications officer deftly manipulated the controls before looking up. "It appears so, Sir."

"The commence hailing our visitor, Lieutenant, on automatic; you can monitor while you work on intraship communications. Making contact is your primary responsibility at this time."

"Aye, Sir." Uhura went about her duties, her outward calm a thin veneer over the inner dread she felt with every blast that rocked the bridge of the Enterprise.

ooOOoo

James T. Kirk bolted down the corridor toward the turbolift, he and the others in the hallway avoiding collision with each other. There was another jolt, then the ship shuddered horribly, throwing them all to the deck in pitch blackness.

"Damn! Dammit!" muttered Kirk, as he scrambled up, trying to get his bearings in inky darkness. Soon, however, emergency lights illuminated the corridors with a hellish red glow and the captain found the nearest commlink, slamming it with an open palm.

"Kirk to bridge." There was no reply. "Bridge, come in." Nothing.

The captain ran to the turbolift, not surprised to find it non-functional. Praying that engineering's intercom might at least be working, he hit the switch and hailed Scotty.

"Scott here. Captain, where are you?"

"Still on deck five, Scotty. Status in engineering?"

"We've still got warp drive, Captain, but it won't do us any good. Impulse engines are out, so we're trapped here in orbit!"

"Stuck here while whatever or whoever it is tears us apart. I've lost contact with the bridge, Scotty. Have you talked to Spock?"

"I got a wee word with Lieutenant Uhura, Captain, before the circuits went. If it's possible, she'll have them workin' again. Meanwhile... "

"Meanwhile," interjected the captain, gritting his teeth, "I've got to get to the bridge. Scotty, I'm going to take the ladders. Hail me intraship if you need me."

"Aye, Sir."

"Scotty... "

"Aye, Sir?"

"Hold her together."

"She'll hold together, Sir. Scott out."

Kirk listened to the static for a second before hitting the comm switch, oblivious to the purposeful crew hurrying in the corridor to battle stations. All those drills, and for what? Despite that nagging warning he had sensed about the shadow and all the preparation over the past week, he had been asleep, for God's sake, when his ship had been attacked! He felt about as useless, as helpless, as that day on the planet below...

He stiffened, refusing to go over that thought, that memory, one more time in an endless stream of times -- not now, not when his ship, his crew, were in imminent danger of annihilation.

Kirk found the nearest ladder leading to the deck above and scrambled up it, heedless of the increasing distance between him and the deck below. As he neared the access to Deck D, another explosion sent him flying -- literally, as the artificial gravity shut down.

Once, when he was a little boy, he had climbed too high in the elm tree behind the farmhouse when the rotten branch he reached for broke under his weight. When he fell, time slowed down, seconds stretched to minutes, as he casually observed his descent. Now, as the gravity died, he found himself floating, oblivious to time or weight, and unconscious of the fact that he had lost his grip on the ladder rung. For a brief, forever moment, he was eight years old again, and wondering if it hurt very much when you broke your neck.

Just as abruptly as it had faltered, the gravity was reinstated and he felt himself falling helplessly. Two hands reached in the access and grabbed him roughly by one arm and the neck of his tunic, bringing him to a jarring halt. Kirk grabbed back, his eyes on the below deck, feet dangling. As he stared down between his own legs, he was once again in that elm tree, clinging desperately to a low limb, screaming for Sam... his heart in his throat, Jim felt himself hauled to safety in the corridor.

"That was close. Thanks... " He looked up into Ensign Chekov's worried face. Kirk stood up shakily, straightening his shirt. "Your timing is excellent, Ensign. But what are you doing here?"

Chekov frowned. _Saving your neck,_ he thought grimly. "I was on my way to the bridge, Captain. Turbolifts are out, and I found out from a yeoman that the access tubes are blocked one deck up."

Kirk was annoyed at the persistent churning in his stomach; he blamed it on the fluctuating gravity. "Have you been in contact with the bridge?" he demanded, grabbing Chekov by the arm and pulling him along, almost running down the corridor.

"No, Sir. Communications are still out on the bridge." He pulled away from the captain's grip. "Sir, where are we going?"

"To try the other access tubes. We've got to get up there."

ooOOoo

"Mr. Thompson, trajectory coordinates!"

The lieutenant frowned at his navigation instruments. "They keep changing, Sir! Just about the time I get the numbers, they move, and in unpredictable patterns. They're like a swarm of bees!"

"Mr. Spock!" exclaimed Sulu, "How could these ships be cloaking themselves and firing upon us at the same time?"

"Given the random factor that they could be virtually any species in the galaxy, Mr. Sulu, it is entirely possible that they possess the technology to cloak their ships and fire simultaneously, if they so desire."

Sulu turned to face the Vulcan squarely. "But, Sir, the fact that Romulan ships have been spotted less than 150 parsecs from this quadrant in the last month would cut down on the random factor, wouldn't it? What are the chances that these are Romulans?"

"Considerably greater than random, Mr. Sulu, yet the ability to remain cloaked while firing their weapons is indeed a puzzlement."

"Could it be an alliance?" Sulu and Uhura exchanged worried glances.

Spock did not answer the question, but turned his attention to the new crew member who manned the science station. "Mr. Atahra, time since last bombardment, and intensity."

The Vestrii answered efficiently, not looking away from his monitor. "Three minutes, Mr. Spock, and at 30 decreased intensity. And Sir, shield number four is holding, though considerably weaker. Someone from below is feeding auxiliary power to it."

Spock mentally thanked the other department heads who, although temporarily cut off from the bridge, still efficiently looked after the ship.

"It would seem they are backing off," Spock mused aloud. "Fewer attacks, and at a lesser strength... In answer to your last question, Lieutenant," he continued, turning back to Sulu, "they are most likely Romulans. Perhaps they have modified their cloaking device so that weaponry can be utilized without sacrificing invisibility. We really know very little about them, except that they have been rumored to have such a device, and that they have become more and more aggressive over the last few months. However, I would say that, based on their decreasing attacks, there is considerable drain on their systems."

"What does that mean for us, Mr. Spock?" asked Uhura, turning from her console.

"It means they must either retreat before their energy reserves are depleted, Lieutenant, or close in for the kill."

ooOOoo

Pavel hurried alongside his captain, the corridors empty except for a few individuals, most personnel having now reached their assigned posts. Access tubes D/4 and D/5 were also blocked; a deficient number four shield allowed the weakening of a bulkhead, thereby initiating automatic seal-off of access tubes in the affected areas. They stopped at D/5, Kirk looking up futilely at the sealed hatch which blocked their way.

Chekov fidgeted restlessly. _A break... never should have taken a break! I should be on the bridge right now, not scrambling around the ship like a lost rat!_ Pavel took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. "Sir... Captain."

"What is it, Ensign?" said Kirk, irritably, as he dragged his eyes from the blocked ladder.

"We should try down the lateral corridor, perhaps D/8 or D/9. Number four shield was the only weak one at last report, so other tubes should be open."

Kirk looked a him strangely before nodding in agreement, and they jogged off in the direction Chekov had indicated. "How did you now about the number four shield, Ensign? he blurted, curiosity showing behind the worry.

"Well," Chekov began, not knowing how his commanding officer would take what he was about to say. "That was the last thing I heard." Pavel's face reddened with sudden anger at himself for letting Kirk intimidate him. "Sir," he said, as they looked up another blocked tube. "I called Tactical and they told me."

Kirk stared at the navigator, his face unreadable. "Next tube, Ensign."

Pavel shook his head as they moved on. As usual, he found himself feeling brow-beaten and awkward when in the presence of the captain, though there was no tangible reason for him to do so. During the last week of drills there had been one or two mistakes; then there had been that final drill, when he had 'killed the ship,' as Kirk so amiably put it. But somehow, Chekov felt it was more than the blunders -- the captain had resented him since the beginning. Why couldn't he please him?

He was tired! Didn't Kirk know he had been putting in extra hours, studying ship's navigation records, studying Kirk's own files, trying with everything he had to measure up? He really hadn't a clue to Kirk's problem until a day ago, when his commanding officer called him 'Gary... '

ooOOoo

Alarms sounded and panels winked their forecast of impending loss of atmosphere on Decks D and C. Swearing, Scotty whirled and hit the intraship commlink.

"Attention, all personnel. Atmosphere on Decks C and D is compromised due to weakening of the bulkheads. Seal-off on these decks is imminent. Completed shutdown will be in five minutes. All Deck D personnel are to use access tubes to exit to Decks E and below immediately. Deck C personnel, report to Deck B with all haste. Repeat... Decks C and D will be sealed off in four point five minutes. All breathable atmosphere will deteriorate rapidly. Get outta there. Repeat, get out while you can!"

The engineer leaned over the flashing panel, praying that anyone left on those two decks would find a fast and safe escape from a lingering death.

ooOOoo

Loss of atmosphere! Pavel glanced at his chronometer as they hurried down the corridor, checking access tubes on the run. They were both knocked to their knees as the sip underwent another sudden barrage of phaser fire, bracing themselves until the Enterprise righter herself.

The air around them was subtly different -- Kirk realized it was because all ventilation systems had been shut down by ship's computers, rerouting breathable atmosphere to the other decks just before seal-off was to take placed. He looked over to Chekov, who had obviously come to the same conclusion. Without a word

between them, they rose from the deck and bolted off like two runners at a track meet.

"One point three minutes until seal-off of Decks C and D." Scotty's voice echoed off the deserted walls.

Kirk hesitated, looking sourly at access tube D/9, also blocked. "Either another bulkhead has been compromised, or the shutdown has been initiated already. This tube shouldn't be blocked."

"Mr. Scott obviously does not expect anyone to try to go up to Deck C, Captain."

Kirk's eyes fixed on a closed bulkhead hatch. "Sealed, too," he murmured, then opened a smaller panel cover on the hatch, keying in a code. The door slid open silently, the air beyond it cool and dark. Kirk reached just inside the open hatch and pulled out two air masks, handing one to Chekov, who looked at him

incredulously.

"We're going in there?"

Kirk noticed the navigator had moved back a step. "You have a problem with that, Ensign?"

"Thirty seconds until shutdown," came the echoing voice of the Scotsman.

"There are other access tubes, and we could try the recessed turbolift ladders."

"If the atmosphere goes on this level the vacuum could invade the shaft. You feel like risking that?" said Kirk, checking the fittings on the mask. "It might have worked earlier. But now, this is our only alternative. After you, Ensign," Kirk said, overly polite, motioning the Russian in before him. Having entered the darkness himself, Kirk reached once more to the storage compartment to retrieve two halogen lamps, palmed a switch beside the hatch entry, and the door slid between them and the known universe of the Enterprise.

ooOOoo

"Mr. Thompson, could you get a fix on those latest attacks?"

"Aye, Sir, I have a fix, but again, they are random and continually moving. Interesting, though... "

"What is that, Mr. Thompson?" asked the Vulcan giving the acting navigator his full attention.

"I've been monitoring their attack strength, based on Mr. Atahra's reports.

Intensity of phaser fire has decreased another 15. They are definitely suffering some kind of power drain, Sir."

Spock glanced over to the Vestrii, who confirmed Thompson's findings. He turned back to the screen, staring outward at the planet below and the stars beyond as Sulu swept the area with visual sensors. Whoever their assailant was, whether it was one or more, were maintaining their attack despite the steady loss of power.

_I need to know what their limitations really are_, he thought, and was reminded of what the captain, upon occasion, did when engaged in a game of chess or even poker. Unfortunately, the captain was not on the bridge and Uhura had not yet been able to restore communications between the bridge and the rest of the ship. The Vulcan steepled slender fingers under his chin, leaning upon both knees in intense concentration. I must reason this out... on my own. Momentarily, he straightened, eyebrows disappearing beneath ebony bangs.

"A bluff," he murmured. "Ms. Uhura, terminate automatic transmission to the alien vessel until further notice."

"What is it, Mr. Spock?" asked Sulu, watching him.

"Romulans, if that is indeed who we are dealing with, are a very proud species, Mr. Sulu. What little history of them that is known indicates surrender is unacceptable. They hold a philosophy much akin to one in your ancient culture known as kamikaze. They would destroy themselves and their ship instead of being

taken captain, and would try to take as many of the enemy with them as possible. They are here for a reason, and they have not chosen to leave, despite their power loss. It appears they have much to lose."

"Did I hear you say, 'a bluff', Mr. Spock?" asked Uhura, pausing from her attempts to restore communication.

"Yes, and since our friends out there have attempted to bluff us, I believe our move would be to... 'call' it? Is that the correct vernacular?"

"Absolutely, Sir." Uhura checked her console, anticipating the Vulcan's next move. "Shall I hail them?"

"Open a channel." The communications officer motioned silently that a channel was open and Spock continued, "This is Commander Spock, in command of the U.S.S. Enterprise. You are in Federation space without having identified yourself, and have fired upon a Starfleet vessel. Your very presence here gives us every right to interpret your actions as an act of war.

"However, it is not our practice to fire indiscriminately upon ships over which we have an advantage. It is obvious your cloaking device is draining your ship's power reserves. It is also obvious that, in addition to your weapons problems, you are low on fuel; otherwise you would not need to remain in orbit.

"Disengage your cloaking device, lower your shields, and disarm your weaponry, Commander. We are willing to engage in peaceful negotiations, but we are not prepared to let you leave orbit of this planet without reasonable explanation. Spock out." He motioned for Uhura to cease communications.

"Not bad, Mr. Spock. You've given them something to think about."

"It remains, however, a counter-bluff, Lieutenant, unless he 'folds.' But he could raise the stakes... " Spock's eyebrows creased over his nose in a close semblance of plain human worry.

"You mean he could have another weapon up his sleeve?" asked the helmsman.

"Exactly. I believe if there had been another ship the Enterprise would have been destroyed by now. He also has sensors, and knows we have no impulse power and a badly weakened shield in the main hull area of the ship. He may very well be laughing at us."

Uhura's console squawked to life, every comm channel lit, voices tumbling over one another as ship's departments reported in. The lieutenant deftly sorted out nonessentials, rerouting calls, her voice calm. As her hands flew over her instruments, a frown creased her brow. "Sir," she addressed Spock, "I have

partial restoration, but engineering and belowdecks are still out on my panel."

As she spoke, a well-known voice blared on the captain's comm unit. "Jim! What the hell is going on up there? Communications gone, emergency lights, gravity haywire! How do you expect me to take care of casualties with all... "

"Captain Kirk is not on the bridge, Doctor," intoned Spock, cutting off the irascible CMO. "There is, at present, a great deal 'going on,' which leaves no time to explain it to you."

"Not on the bridge? Well, he's not anywhere within hailing distance either, Spock. After Scotty told me Jim had contacted him from Deck 5 after the first assault, I knew he'd be trying to get up there as soon as he could. I've called everywhere I can get the comm to work. He's just... disappeared."

"I am sure the captain is making every effort to reach the bridge, Doctor. I will have Uhura continue your attempts to hail him. Spock out." He closed the channel, knowing Jim would try everything to get to them, and wondering what was taking him so long.

ooOOoo

McCoy cursed under his breath. "That damned Vulcan's going to give me an ulcer some day," he fumed, pacing his office. Well, not today, he wasn't! He grabbed a medikit and ran out of sickbay. At one end of the corridor was a non-functioning turbolift. Next to it was the access tube. It was a long way to engineering...

He slipped his kit over a shoulder by its utility strap and began his descent, taking care not to look down. "I'm gettin' too old for this," he fussed, a lone figure moving slowly down in the gloom.

ooOOoo

Chekov and Kirk clambered up steep, awkwardly angled utility ladders and proceeded along long maintenance walkways little more than 25 cm wide. The slightly dusty environment of the area between the two inner hulls seemed filthy by contrast to the sleek purity of the inhabited areas of the Enterprise. In

actuality the air, though musty and smelling of the dust, was breathable. The air masks, which they found unnecessary, dangled useless from the two men's belts, often inhibiting their progress.

Pavel did not like this blackness. It pressed in on him, surrounding him with folds of smothering intimacy. No, not now! His psychiatric scans had almost prevented his acceptance into Starfleet, due to this irrational fear of total dark. However, if Starfleet had disallowed brilliant young cadets simply because they had very real human emotions, even fear, there would never be any Terran graduates. He had learned to deal with it -- a premise of command rank being to identify the problem, then handle it. Only the entrants who could come to grips with their phobias made it into Starfleet, and Chekov had passed with flying colors. So why now? He found himself trembling, adrenaline levels high, as he followed Kirk through parts of the ship's anatomy which were never designed to be entered while in deep space. He knew they were already being bombarded with some radiation -- not enough to hurt them yet, probably -- but the sense of vulnerability in this dark, alien place was almost overwhelming.

Kirk's cold demeanor was like the blackness. It put Pavel on unfamiliar ground, surrounded him with unknowns. As he followed the captain, the Russian's memory played back all the comments, all the interplay between the two men during the last days of drills. If he gave 95, Kirk wanted 100. If he gave 97, did the captain notice the two percent improvement? No, not him. All he saw was the lacking three percent. Why? Because, somehow, the young navigator knew he was being compared to his predecessor. Chekov looked in the mirror of ambition, and saw Gary Mitchell staring back at him.

Pavel could see Gary's face as it had appeared in Starfleet rosters -- self-assured, even brash. He never had to fight for the captain's respect, he'd wager. Kirk had even requested that Mitchell be assigned to the Enterprise, not only as navigator, but as first officer, too. Then he gets himself killed and Kirk makes a martyr of him, he thought, darkly, and blackballs anyone else who has the gall to sit in that chair...

_Mitchell_, he thought, his features darkening. "I wish I had never heard the name," he grumbled, not realizing he had spoken aloud. Pavel was brought up short when Kirk suddenly whirled on him.

"What?" The captain turned toward him, blinding the young man with the halogen lamp. "What name?"

Kirk's sudden advance and the harsh light threw the navigator off-balance, and he feel backward off the walkway, landing on a lower level a few feet below. His own lamp bounced off the catwalks and ladders below him, and was gone.

ooOOoo

"Chekov... Chekov, can you hear me?"

Pavel lay absolutely still until he determined how he was lying on the walkway -- a false move could send him hurtling further down, like his lamp, breaking every bone in his body.

"Chekov!" Was there worry in the captain's voice? Or fear?

"I'm all right, Sir. Just shine the lamp for me until I get my bearings." Kirk located him and held the light steady while Pavel turned on his side, got to his hands and knees, then attempted to stand.

Kirk watched from above, noticing the ensign favored his left forearm. He winced unconsciously, knowing full well the young man could have been killed and it would have been his fault. As he held the light for the Russian to see his way to the maintenance ladder, the captain was reminded all too vividly of another

young man, a friend, the friend who, if Kirk had known how to handle things differently, might still be alive. Instead, he'd been forced to kneel over Gary, the rock between his own two hands, asking forgiveness for what he was about to do. The lamp wavered in his hand as he relived those horrible moments when he

knew he must kill his closest friend.

Chekov halted in the ensuing dark. "Captain, the lamp!"

Guiltily, Kirk once again held the light on the ladder, then moved to help Chekov up the last few rungs. It was then he saw that Pavel's sleeve was soaked with blood.

ooOOoo

"Scotty, you've got to show me how to manually operate a turbolift."

"What, man?" yelled the engineer, buried up to his waist in an impulse engine port. "I dinna have time for that, Doctor! I've got to get these bairns back on line before that blasted ship blows us out of the sky!"

"Scotty, please."

Something in McCoy's tone made the Scotsman wiggle out enough to squint at the medical officer who knelt near the port opening. McCoy looked worried.

"Which turbolift?"

"Bridge. Scotty, Jim's missing. Spock doesn't know where he is."

"Spock?" Scotty just missed grazing his scalp as he hastened to stand. "You've been in touch with the bridge?"

"Yes. Partial restoration of communications. They're trying to raise him, but I did that already. I have a hunch, though... "

A knowing look came into the engineer's eyes. "I may have the same one, Doctor. And from the battering our Lady's takin', he's going to need medical attention if he makes it to the bridge. Come on, then."

McCoy followed Scotty, a nagging thought pushing hard between his temples. What kind of medical attention would Jim need if he didn't make it at all?

ooOOoo

"Captain Kirk to the bridge. Ensign Chekov, report to the bridge, please." Uhura repeated the calls, varying them, but there was no reply.

"Thirty minutes, 17 seconds since the last attack, Sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Atahra. Lieutenant Uhura, any message from that ship?"

"Nothing! It's as if they weren't out there."

"Mr. Spock," said Sulu, "how do we know they are there? Under their cloaking device, they could conceivably leave without our knowing it."

"The nature of the game would indicate that they cannot leave, or they will not leave, Mr. Sulu. It is my estimation that they are still with us. For whatever reason they came here initially, they have consumed tremendous amounts of energy to remain invisible to us; they have attacked us with enough force to deplete

any phaser bank. It is my belief that they must tap into the dilithium stores on the surface before they can make their escape. It would, however, be helpful to know how many of them there are... "

Spock paused, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. Sulu and Uhura exchanged looks, wondering what was going on in that enigmatic brain. They didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Mr. Atahra, bring up those sensor readings of the shadow we encountered when we first entered orbit."

"I have them, Mr. Spock."

"The images appeared as refracted ghosts, did they not?"

"Yes, Sir, but only for a moment."

"But long enough to get their coordinates."

"Well, yes, but they're like pinpoints on a graph. Nothing to get a fix on."

"Mr. Atahra, if I were in a house of mirrors and saw your reflection in one of them, how would I go about finding you?"

"You would have to follow the individual reflections, blacking out each mirror as you came to it. Eventually, you would eliminate all the reflections and... " The Vestrii's purple eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "I see, Mr. Spock! I can use the tactical computer to eliminate the reflections until I find the actual object!"

"Or objects, Mr. Atahra. Please conduct your analysis posthaste. Lieutenant Uhura," Mr. Spock continued, crooking a finger at the communications officer. She came down to stand beside the captain's chair. "Begin regular, routine transmissions to the Vrikahr. I realize it is ahead of schedule, but they are within range. Transmit in Vulcan only. Address them as the 'starship' Vrikahr; advise them we are preparing to beam down equipment and supplies, and of the unwelcome company we are keeping at present. I want our unknown guests to be fully aware that a Vulcan cruiser with maximum warp capacity and weaponry is on

its way here and due to arrive within one solar day. They need not know that the Vrikahr is a freighter... do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?"

Uhura's eyes sparkled. "Perfectly, Sir. I do have one question, however."

"What is that?"

"How am I going to explain to the Vrikahr my early communication, and their sudden promotion to starship?"

Spock's eyebrow slanted minutely, along with the corner of his mouth.

"Addressing them in Vulcan will be warning enough. Under the circumstances, they will understand."

"Mr. Spock, if the intruders believe the Vrikahr is a starship, they may run," observed Sulu.

"If they run, we'll pick up their ion trail. However, as stated, we have evidence to indicate they are not capable of retreating without first refueling. It would seem our presence -- and hence their desire to remain cloaked -- is preventing them from doing just that."

"There's another factor, too, Sir," continued the helmsman. "If they think another starship, undamaged, is on its way here, and if they are truly unable to leave, they may decide to use their last energy reserves to blast us to smithereens."

Spock cocked his head slightly, then nodded soberly. "Yes, that is a possibility I have considered, Mr. Sulu." The first officer steepled his fingers gain, gazing at the unchanging stars. "But it is not something upon which I wish to dwell at present."

ooOOoo

"Ensign... Chekov, can you walk?" Kirk had seen a ledge a little ahead of them which was wider than the catwalks, and backed up against the secondary hull -- a safe place to sit down. The Russian nodded, and though pale, moved steadily enough, gripping his arm with the other hand. Jim grabbed Pavel by the good arm, suddenly protective of the man, and slipped his other arm around his shoulders.

As they neared the wider platform, Kirk guided the ensign to a spot, but was surprised when Pavel pulled away from his grip with unusual strength, the young man's eyes afire with some inner turmoil. Kirk had seen that look sometimes on the bridge, but it had been quickly subdued, the navigator handling the drills

tirelessly, efficiently. Only lately had Kirk begun to notice the fatigue floating just beneath the surface.

Pavel was shaking with suppressed anger. How dare Kirk patronize him now! He had tried so hard to win Kirk's approval, only to be rebuffed, his hopes dashed again and again. Sometimes the captain would seem to soften, even complimenting him once or twice, but then he would clam up again, suddenly distant and

unapproachable. _Well, I just showed him what I think of his bedside manner_, he thought. He had jerked away from Kirk's grasp, but if he had the strength, he would have sooner knocked him down. Tight-lipped, the Russian began tearing clumsily at the stubborn fabric of his uniform to better see what a jagged edge

of carelessly contrived railing had done to his forearm.

The captain knelt beside him, grabbing the material with both hands, and succeeded in ripping it up to the elbow, exposing an ugly wound.

_Well, you did it this time_, Jim fumed, biting his lip. "This should be sealed with a protoplaser, Mister."

Pavel noticed that, though the captain's voice was somewhat harsh, his touch was gentle as he explored the extent of the damage. Despite his anger, Chekov still came from a family who fought freely, then freely forgave. He thought of his uncle Piotr, a hulk of a man who frequently brought home deer and the big brown

bear he once killed; this same man had tenderly bound the leg of a pet pigeon when the neighbor's cat had mauled it. The big man's bluster hid behind it a tender heart. Now, as Pavel watched Kirk's ministrations, he couldn't help but smile.

"I'm afraid I don't happen to have one on me, Sir."

Kirk looked at the young man sitting before him, bloodied but smiling, who would more than likely follow him, out of a sense of duty, into hell and back if so commanded. Grimacing, Kirk remembered the dedication of another navigator, only something had gone wrong...

Yet the Russian's apparent attachment to Kirk had not made him afraid to question, nor hesitant to voice an opinion. That was also one of Gary's special character traits before he... changed. And, he realized, it was also a character trait in someone else he knew all too well -- one James T. Kirk. He looked back at the navigator and saw his youth, his inexperience, but he also saw the ensign's drive -- and perhaps a show of inner strength? We'll soon see, he thought, his jaw tightening.

"Ensign, I've nothing to close the wound. I'll have to tie it up; fortunately, there's no arterial bleeding, but there's nothing to help your pain. Can you move your hand?"

Pavel curled the fingers, painfully but unhampered. "Aye, Sir. Captain?"

"Yes, Ensign," said Kirk, occupied with using the torn off fore-sleeve to contrive a bandage of sorts.

"I have a name. It's Pavel Chekov." He hesitated, searching Kirk's face for signs of softening. "My friends call me Pavel."

Kirk looked up sharply, a look of grief clouding his eyes for a moment before it retreated. He heard the echo of another voice saying, "My friends call me Gary." Checking the bandage again, he replied, "I'm aware of that, Mister."

Chekov stared at him in disbelief. Where had the gentleness gone? Disappeared gain, behind that cold mask. Funny, for a second he thought... the navigator shrank into himself, the small hope which had sprung up so quickly dying a premature death. Well, to hell with you, then! Shrugging off the captain's offered hand up, Pavel got to his feet, wavering a little until he steadied himself against the hull.

That did it -- if they go out of this he was going to put in for a transfer, even if it did hold him back for a year. A delay in attaining rank was ultimately better than this -- never knowing what to expect, never knowing if

Kirk's attitude was because he did or because of something he was... or wasn't...

Kirk dropped his outstretched hand, realizing he had destroyed something in the young man, denied something in himself. He squared his shoulders. "Come on, Ensign, we have at least a deck and a half to travel. It's too quiet up there! If only I... " Kirk bit off the words: Rule #6, Officer's manual -- _Mustn't show _

_doubt... bad for morale._

There was nothing in the manual about demoralizing the captain. Memories and dreams crouched in the dark around him, taunting him, accusing him. All the advice he'd been given about Gary's 'illness,' the decisions he had made, the extremes he had gone to, were for nothing. Gary was dead, along with Elizabeth and Lee. Piper had left, and though McCoy filled the spot abundantly, so many things had changed so quickly. And now a half-alien took Gary's place as first officer -- oh yes, he had asked Spock to accept the position, and found himself liking this enigma of a man -- like him more than he would care to admit. But it was almost as if he had forsaken his old friendship. After all, Gary was..

Gary was dead.

Chekov stumbled and Kirk reached to steady him, only to have his offered help refused. He couldn't bring himself to rebuke the navigator, however. Chekov was hurting, that was obvious -- perhaps in more ways than one -- but he was very much alive. And right now Jim would only allow himself to think of how to keep

him that way. Along with the rest of the crew...

ooOOoo

"Mr. Spock, the number four shield is about to give way." Mr. Atahra's look revealed what he was thinking. In a ship already battered enough to compromise whole decks' bulkheads, would a failed shield unleash more stress than an overstrained hull could handle?

"Uhura, notify the sections of the ship you can reach." Behind him, Spock could hear the communications officer efficiently dispatch the message. The rest of the crew would have to fend for themselves. Spock thought about them, about the ones trapped in turbolifts, somewhere belowdecks, about the ones on duty but unable to communicate with the bridge. He thought about the captain, wondering what had become of him, and wishing he were on the bridge. He censored that thought immediately, considering it emotional and therefore unworthy of a Vulcan. Sometimes he wondered if the growing friendship between himself and the

captain was not exposing him unduly to Human influences, such as impatience. For he was finding that, if one wasn't careful, waiting could become truly irritating...

ooOOoo

Pavel walked silently, not feeling very well. He supposed, offhandedly, that he was experiencing a delayed shock reaction, probably from the trauma of the fall and the loss of blood. What he didn't realize, however, at least consciously, was that he had lost something far more vital: the ability to look up to someone he admired. His arm throbbing, Chekov was cold and growing colder, and right now, his heart was stone.

As he stumbled along, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, staying close to Kirk so as to see where to put his feet, he suddenly noticed the captain was shivering every bit as much as he. Pavel looked around him as if noticing his surroundings for the first time, his and Kirk's breath steaming in the stygian air around them. "Captain, it's getting much colder. We must be nearing B deck."

"You're right. The secondary hull is closer to the primary hull there." They were still fairly well-protected against radiation due to thicker irradium plates in the section, but were feeling the effect of deep space on the air. "If we keep moving, we'll be out of it before we freeze to death." Kirk's voice held a trace of irony.

_There he goes again_, mused Chekov, in wonder. _Why is he afraid I will like him?_ Pavel looked at his captain's back as he led the way up still another ladder. _Does he fear what might happen if he forms other friendships?_ Amazement swept the ensign's countenance. _Is he afraid to let Gary Mitchell go?_ Command premise: handle your irrational emotions before they handle you. "Nothing to fear except fear itself," he quoted aloud.

"What's that, Ensign?" asked Kirk, turning on the ladder.

Before Pavel could reply, a noiseless shudder swept through the hulls and the platform on which he stood. He clung desperately to the ladder as the ship danced her own drunken two-step, and watched in horror as Kirk, thrown off-balance, lost his grip and fell head-first to land in a crumpled heap at Chekov's feet.

ooOOoo

"Mr. Spock, I'm picking up on something," Atahra intoned. "We are being monitored."

"I believe we had already surmised that."

"No, Mr. Spock, I mean I am actually picking it up on my equipment. They must have been blocking it before, but now they are not."

"Or they can't," Sulu commented.

"Agreed, Mr. Sulu. Any signs of aggressive behavior since our last transmission, Mr. Atahra?"

"Negative, Sir."

"Sir, our inactivity should have given them a clue something is wrong on the Enterprise," interjected Thompson. "Don't you think they know we're having communications problems?"

"Among others. They are not without intelligence, Mr. Thompson."

"Then why haven't they fired on us?"

"I don't believe they can, Mr. Thompson. They are reserving what little weaponry they have left." Spock felt the eyes of bridge personnel on him, questioning.

"Since they are orbiting this cracking station, they came either to acquire dilithium or to sabotage the station. The station is intact, which obliterates the latter theory. If they were trying to restock their fuel supply, then

obviously our presence here prevents them from lowering their shields to beam up dilithium stores or transfer personnel."

"They're stuck here."

"So it would seem, Mr. Sulu. It only remains to be seen how long their fuel holds out before their orbit begins to decay."

"I've heard Romulans don't give up without a fight," muttered Uhura.

"Nor have I, Lieutenant," returned Spock, turning to look at her over his shoulder. "But we shall give them every opportunity to do so."

ooOOoo

Pavel knelt beside the fallen captain and gently turned him on his back, trying to ignore his own pain as he wrenched the wounded arm. Kirk was dead weight, his face unnaturally white. Chekov lay a hand on the captain's chest -- there was no discernable movement. _Is he dead? _Quickly, with an urgency more

personal than the efficiency of first aid training, he felt the carotid artery just under the Kirk's ear and found a faint but steady pulse. His captain was alive, at least. His eyes prickled with relief as he checked Kirk's arms and legs, looking for broken bones. As he felt along Kirk's hairline with his good hand, locating a bloody lump over the left temple, some of his troubled emotions were washed away with the unshed tears. He scrubbed at his eyes with an already grimy sleeve, leaving a grey smudge across one cheek, and concentrated on determining the extent of Kirk's injuries.

The captain's pupils were uneven, the right one dilated slightly, and the side of his face was beginning to darken into what was probably going to be a beauty of a bruise. Chekov took his pulse and checked his breathing again; those seemed all right. Pavel shifted his weight slightly, trying to ease the strain on his

legs. All he could do now was wait for the captain to regain consciousness. The throbbing in his arm made him wish it would be soon. He couldn't carry Kirk up those last two ladders to the B deck hatch which stood so plainly in the light of the lamp, and he couldn't leave him there; another jolt would send Kirk tumbling down all those levels they had climbed.

The injury to his arm was painful, the wound oozing and irritated by the rough bandage and the weight of the captain. But he mustn't let that distract him now. _What should I do?_ he wondered, glancing down at his torn shirt.

A slow smile lit his pain-filled eyes. He could tie the captain to the platform and make his way to safety and help above!

The navigator grabbed the sleeve of the captain's tunic, prepared to do a little tearing of his own, when Kirk began to moan softly and move around. Pavel held off tying him up, waiting to see if he would come to full consciousness. After a little while, Kirk's eyes opened, but although they looked into Chekov's own, the ensign soon realized they did not recognize him.

"Gary... Gary, forgive me!" Kirk repeated this phrase more than once, growing more restless each time. Chekov realized that he couldn't leave Kirk under any circumstances now; his thrashing would inevitably break any bonds the navigator could contrive.

Hoping to reach some level of the captain's consciousness, Pavel said, "He forgives you, Captain. You haven't done anything wrong. I read in the ship's log how he died in the line of duty. It was an accident... "

"It was no accident," shouted Kirk, his eyes remarkably lucid. Quickly, however, they clouded over again and the lids closed, the restlessness returning. Pavel raised Kirk's head to his lap to keep the man from beating himself against the ladder rail. A myriad of emotions swept through him as he held the captain in his arms.

Funny how an unconscious person looks much younger than when awake, as if all the cares and burdens fall away and he's young once more. _You fool, how old can he be?_ Chekov smirked, rebuking himself. Ten, eleven years older? Pavel wondered where he would be in that length of time and what he would have become. _Certainly not old,_ he reasoned, before noticing the captain was once again watching him.

"What's so... funny?" Kirk asked, his voice raspy in the cold air.

"I wasn't laughing at you, Captain."

"Oh?" Kirk drew away from the Russian as he struggled to sit up. For a moment, he had been back in his quarters, Gary sitting across from him, laughing at him. _Why is Gary's arm bleeding?_ Jim's expression was guarded as he tried to get away from this dream-being, this dead man, who still knelt before him.

The navigator saw the withdrawal, the folded arms, the averted eyes. Once again he had been drawn in, just enough to think there was hope for a friendship, or at least a mutual regard, and once gain he had the door slammed in his face. Against all Chekov's training, all his determination, and all his strength of will, the Russian felt it coming, and this time there was no stopping it.

"Look, you... pompous, gold-braided piece of ice!" Pavel made a jabbing gesture at his own throat with the side of his hand. "I have had it up to here with trying to be somebody I'm not, to perform like a puppet for you to jerk the strings while I dance! You sit on that throne of yours, you stare down our necks like the headsman waiting with the axe! Do you know how insane that is? It's poor management, not to mention poor human relations; but leaving that aside, it's poor command!" Chekov found himself standing, shaking with anger, part of him realizing he was digging his own grave and part of him not caring at all. Kirk had pushed himself back against the ladder, his own eyes blazing with anger.

"Is that all you have to say?" Kirk's voice was low, the words spoken carefully. Pavel wasn't sure what that meant, but he was past caring now.

"No, it's not. I know I'm not the only one who has to measure up to Mitchell's untarnished image. You chose him as first officer over Mr. Spock... "

"That's enough, Mister."

"I am _not_ Mister!!" he yelled, fists clenched. "I am Pavel Chekov, Ensign, navigator of the Enterprise! I am proud of what I am, and what I do! I am not, and can never be -- Gary Mitchell!!"

Silence hung between the two men for a long moment. Pavel stood defiantly, feet apart, his hands clenched at his sides. Kirk looked at him, unspeaking, then closed his eyes. "You're right," Kirk said finally, his voice weak. "You're not Gary, and neither is Spock. Neither of you can be... you don't understand... "

Kirk's words became slurred and his eyes wandered as he drifted back into semi-consciousness, slipping a little against the ladder. Immediately, Chekov was by his side, holding him to prevent him from falling. Jim was still struggling to speak, the words hard to understand. He was talking to Gary again.

"Sorry, Gary. So sorry! You didn't ask for this. Elizabeth didn't. Kelso certainly didn't -- he didn't know what was happening; he... why did you kill_ him_?! He was your _friend_, for God's sake! _I_ was your friend, but you tried to..."

Kirk's grip tightened excruciatingly on Pavel's injured arm, but he dared not let him go. Again, he tried talking to his commanding officer.

"Captain! Jim Kirk, you listen to me! I don't know what happened on that planet, and I don't want to know. If Gary Mitchell was special to you, there's nothing wrong with that!"

Kirk's whirling vision cleared slowly and he looked up into the ensign's eyes. There was concern and worry written there. Chekov's recent outburst still rang in the captain's ears as he realized how deeply the youth had been hurting, his need for approval. Jim remembered what it was like when he had entered Starfleet; he had been so young, so inexperienced, but he had lost his father long before that and had learned early on to make his own way. But Chekov, if Kirk remembered the log-on report, still had close ties to home, people who cared about him -- people who had been left far behind, their nurturing support cut off.

And all this time, while Chekov had tried desperately to be accepted, Kirk had repeatedly pushed him away, even resented him, he realized with horror. He, who prided himself on remaining detached, keeping his personal thoughts from interfering with command, had allowed himself to dislike the new navigator, without even realizing it, simply because he wasn't Gary Mitchell!

Chekov, reading the alarm in Kirk's eyes as some kind of concussion-induced hysteria, pulled the captain to him more closely, prepared to hold him there until doomsday, if necessary. "Hang on, Captain. Someone will find us soon." He hesitated, then smiled grimly. "And if they don't we'll just be in deep-freeze until they dismantle the Enterprise. I can see headlines now: 'Russian scientists discover ancient space vessel with two humanoid popsicles in the walls'."

Kirk found himself grinning despite the fact that the Russian was squeezing him so hard he could hardly breathe. He tried to loosen Pavel's grip, only to find more pressure applied to his already protesting ribs.

"Ensign... Chekov!" He paused to draw breath. "Lighten up a little, I'm suffocating!"

Pavel released him, embarrassment flooding his features with crimson as he helped his C.O. sit up, propped once more against the ladder.

Kirk looked at him for a long time without speaking. Pavel shifted uneasily under his gaze. His position had been too unsure for too long. However, he had just told his captain off, hadn't he? What did he have to lose now?

"Captain, that remark I made earlier about Gary Mitchell... I... " He cleared his throat. "I didn't know him. What right do I have to resent someone I don't even know?"

The irony of that statement was like a kick in Kirk's gut. That was just he had been doing to Chekov. Kirk cursed himself silently. Chekov deserved to know the whole story, to be made to understand.

"No right, Ensign," was his answer. "No right at all. Too bad I didn't realize that until now." At the navigator's puzzled look, Kirk forced himself to go on. "I resented you, or hadn't you noticed that? God knows I wish I had. I resented the fact that Gary was dead; we'd been together since academy days, and when he was... just gone... I couldn't accept it, I guess. But meanwhile the position had to be filled; he had to be replaced... " Kirk's eyes darkened with pain.

"But Captain, I was not attempting to replace him; no one could do that!"

Kirk smiled wryly, pulling up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. "_I_ replaced him, Ensign, permanently." The smile faded to a scowl as he continued, "I killed him."

"You... " Pavel let the sentence die, his eyes saying it all.

"You thought I was the headsman, huh?" asked Kirk, shivering. "You think it's easy sitting there and watching young officers like you killing themselves to do their jobs? I know how it is. To you this is all there is; Starfleet is your life. It's my life, too." Kirk grimaced and gingerly touched his bumped head. "But not so with Gary. He was brilliant, brave, resourceful, but he was careless in some ways -- noncommittal, irresponsible. I thought he would outgrow it as he entered his 30's, but if anything it got worse. I grew more intense, I suppose. At least I've been accused of doing so. It was unsettling to be the youngest

captain in the fleet; Gary would never let me live it down... "

Understanding dawned on Pavel's face. "He intimidated you, didn't he?"

Kirk was taken aback. No one had said anything like this to him since Mitchell's death. He tried to stand up, but Chekov held him down, his eyes demanding an answer.

"Yes, in a strange way, I guess he did. Everything was effortless for him, even dropping his past life and becoming another person -- someone I didn't know anymore... "

"Have you ever considered that you never really _did_?" Pavel waited for explosions and fireworks, but none were forthcoming. Instead, Kirk looked at him thoughtfully.

"No, Ensign, I haven't. Until now." Kirk tried with effort to stand again and this time the young navigator helped him.

Pavel struggled with what he wanted to say next. He knew, with dead certainty, that he had already said too much, but there was one more thing... "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Off the record, I am aware of how captain must maintain discipline and authority on board his ship, or havoc results," recited the Russian, unconsciously assuming a military stance. "However," he continued, his facial

expression softening, "it is nice to have someone you respect call you by your name sometimes - even if it is only your last name."

Kirk's face clouded over. He leaned back against the ladder, gripping the rails tightly.

"Mr. Chekov... Pavel." Kirk sighed audibly. "I've never been an open man. I'm certainly more distant to people I don't know very well." Dizziness assailed him for a moment, but he waved off the Russian's offered hand, gripping the rails tighter for support. "However, circumstances have quickly forced us to be closer

than either one of us anticipated." Kirk smiled wryly. "Therefore, you are certainly entitled to an explanation concerning why you have been subjected to treatment you didn't merit."

Chekov stood silently while the captain told him, sometimes hesitantly, of the events which led to Gary's death, and of the other two crew members. It was a tragic tale, all the more so because it still wasn't over, perhaps never would be, to have had such a rare thing as a close friendship suddenly usurped, jerked

away on the arrogant whim of a god. Especially if that god was once the close friend himself. How much more difficult it must be then to form new friendships and relationships, more so it those people reminded you of that old friend, or even worse, yourself.

Kirk was not looking for sympathy and Chekov certainly wasn't going to embarrass the man by offering it, but empathy was something else again. It just happened; he knew it, and Kirk knew it. He understood, and that was enough.

Chekov looked Kirk over with a critical eye. "Can you make it up those last two ladders?"

"In the shape we're in, I'm not sure," Kirk said, eyeing Pavel's blood-soaked bandage. "On the other hand, we'd better get you to the bridge before you pass out -- otherwise, who's going to carry _me_?"

Pavel grinned at his captain through chattering teeth, turned the captain around and, steadying him, pushed him unceremoniously up the ladder, one rung at a time.

ooOOoo

Mr. Atahra's deep voice was pitched a fraction higher as he read out the findings of his meticulous search. "Mr. Spock, I have eliminated all the reflections detected by our sensors."

"Have you extrapolated a location for the vessel?"

"I think so, sir."

"Give them to Lt. Uhura, please." Spock turned to the young woman. "Send their coordinates to the _Vhrika_ with instructions for them to aim all their sensors at those coordinates, Lieutenant. If there is such a thing as luck, our unknown enemy will think their ship faces imminent attack."

The young woman turned back to her console and executed the command. The bridge was strangely quiet, punctuated only by the bleeps and intermittent electronic growls of the equipment as everyone waited to see what would happen.

Everyone jumped when a persistent banging emitted from the emergency hatch located just in front of the helm. Spock, Sulu and Thompson rushed to turn the manual locks and raise the hatch. Two pale faces emerged from the blackness below, barely recognizable as the captain and Chekov.

With undisguised relief, Spock hauled the shivering captain to the deck. "Welcome back, Sir," he intoned, a bit too fervently.

"Believe me," Kirk answered between clenched teeth, "it's good to be back." He looked behind him to see Thompson and Sulu helping Chekov out and cautioned, "Easy, there. Chekov's injured." Covert glances among the crew revealed an opinion that their captain was in a similar condition.

The two men were urged to sit down, and Chekov complied gratefully. Kirk, however, was not as easily persuaded. He moved unsteadily to the captain's chair, Sulu following close behind with a first aid medikit. Spock, taking a hard look at his friend, did not relinquish command.

"Spock, what's been happening to my ship?"

"Mr. Spock... Captain," Uhura exclaimed, not sure whom to address, "It's the Vrikahr responding," Uhura announced to the bridge in general.

"Give them instructions to stand by, Lieutenant," Spock said. She turned back to her console and spoke to the communications officer of the Vulcan vessel.

"The _Vrikahr_?" mumbled Kirk, looking back at Chekov, who shrugged. "They're not due here for days yet." He shook his aching head. "I know I've been out of commission for a while, but can someone please tell me what's going on?"

Spock, Sulu, Thompson, and Atahra all began speaking at once. Kirk flinched in pain. "Hold on! Are we still under attack?" Kirk demanded.

He was interrupted as the unknown ship's engines exploded in an extraordinarily bright flash. As the glow faded, Mr. Atahra lowered his hand from his eyes, understanding written across his features. "I believe they just threw down their cards, Mr. Spock," he offered, his head nodding solemnly on his sinewy neck.

Mesmerized by the sight, Kirk sat down of his own volition, his legs turning to jelly. In the silence following the conflagration, everyone heard him murmur, "What was that?"

Doctor McCoy, in a moment of impeccable timing, stepped off the turbolift onto the bridge. "Jim!" he exclaimed, spotting the captain on the floor, grimy and a battered. "What happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in." He put his hands on his hips. "And sat on."

Kirk looked at Spock, who was conferring with Uhura at the communications station. Thompson and Atahra were poring over data rapidly forming on the science station panel. Sulu manned the helm once again. Kirk realized he wasn't going to get an answer from any of them, so he looked up at McCoy, who still stood with arms akimbo.

"Well, Bones, Mr. Chekov and I decided to take a little tour of the ship since everything else seemed to be under control." His sarcasm was lost on his crew; nobody was paying attention, seemingly, although a few clandestine smiles were successfully hidden from him.

"I wish you'd get yourself under control once in awhile, Jim. Look at you! What a mess - and worse, you've made a mess of this boy, too," spouted the CMO, pointing at Chekov.

The doctor fussed over them both, sending unspoken signals to the crew that all would be well with a little cleaning up and a short stint in sickbay. Kirk watched with concern as McCoy examined Chekov's arm. Catching Bones' eye, he winked.

"Mr. Chekov, I believe we missed sickbay on our tour. You think we should do the good doctor a service and favor him with a visit?"

Pavel raised tired but grateful eyes to his captain. "Least we can do, Sir." He yawned widely, then caught himself, placing a hand - too late - over his mouth.

"You've put in a commendable day today," said Kirk with a slight smile. Both men recognized the meaning behind the brief words. With the help of McCoy and an aide, Kirk and Chekov slowly made their way toward the turbolift. As the captain passed Spock, who had resumed the command chair, his first officer said, "I shall have a full report ready for you upon your return, Captain."

"Make it in two hours, Mr. Spock - in sickbay, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee - uh, tea. I'd like to have your personal perspective in addition to the formal report." He grinned at his science officer, which elicited a raised eyebrow from the Vulcan.

The group moved into the turbolift, and as the doors closed, Spock observed Kirk stand shoulder to shoulder next to the Russian and say, _sotto voce_, "What a guy has to do to find out what's been going on around here!"

End


End file.
